


Five Times Hopper tried to Save Joyce (And the One Time He Did)

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Five Times Plus One, Prequel, Romance, tropes tropes tropes, tw: child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10617348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Come and get your tropes! A 5x plus one fic that delves in Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers past.





	1. One and Two

** One: 1952 **

“What the heck are you doing?” Eight year-old James Hopper blinked in astonishment at the small creature kneeling by the riverbank. The boy (girl?) was holding a wet burlap sack in one hand and clutching reddish branches in the other. The child’s dark auburn curls were cut short in a riotous bob and their waders, coveralls, white tank top, and small oval face were caked in mud. A blue flannel shirt lay a few feet away from where the child stood. The little person had large, dark eyes that shined with intelligence and suspicion as they regarded James. He squirmed under the scrutiny, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he was - as Lonnie Byers put it - an over-sized lard-ass with a bad haircut. He was definitely bigger than the child before him, and was afraid a gentle breeze might carry the reedy little wonder into the river. He felt an odd sort of protectiveness for whoever-it-was.

 

The voice that issued forth from the child had a wispy-yet-rich quality, like a song that was pretty but slightly off-key. Definitely a girl. “Planting trees. What are you doing?”

 

James shrugged and held up his fishing rod and tackle box. “Fishing.”

 

The girl wiped her hands onto the legs of her coveralls and walked over to him, leaving the burlap sack near the riverbank. She clenched her fists and squared her shoulders when she walked, her chin set in determination and an imperious look in her brown eyes. She reminded him of a little porcupine, bristling to make herself appear tough.“Where’s your parents?” She was nosey too, it seemed.

 

“My mom’s dead. Dad’s at work.”

 

“Sorry. My mom is dead too. My dad is around somewhere. What’s your dad do?”

 

“He’s Chief of Police,” James replied with not a little bit of pride in his voice. “What about your dad?”

 

“He’s gonna be the new librarian at the high school.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“So you’re Chuck Hopper’s kid?”

 

He frowned at her familiarity. “My dad’s name is Charles. And how did you know his name?”

 

“He goes to the same bar as my dad, and took mine to the drunk tank the other night.”

 

Her frankness was beginning to annoy him. Kids didn’t just talk about parents going off to bars. They  _ definitely _ didn’t talk about their parents getting arrested with the same tone they would use to remark on the weather. “My dad wasn’t drinking there. He was probably checking out a complaint.”

 

She smirked for a split second, before her eyes softened into an expression of pity. He didn’t know which look he hated most. Without a word, he continued on the path to the fishing hole. “Hey, come back!” The little girl hurried behind him, catching up in an instant despite the disparity in their respective heights. “I’m sure that’s what it was - hey, wait! - do you want to plant trees for a little bit?”

 

He stopped in his tracks, his eyes staring ahead and his head hurting slightly. She was irritating and probably had no ‘tact’, as his Aunt Lou would put it, but he was curious about what she was up to. “Sure.”

 

Ten minutes later he was handing bits of tree cuttings to the girl. They had introduced each other by then and he was spending a lot of time thinking about how musical her name was to the ears. Joyce Calloway. She sounded like a ballad. She had scolded him for pushing the cuttings into the soil too far away from the actual river, and had demoted him to assistant planter. His heart jumped to his throat as she dangled over the side of the riverbank, shoving the cuttings into the earth. The water was rushing by at a rapid speed and she seemed heedless to the danger.

 

“Be careful! I can’t swim.”

 

She frowned at him before taking two more cuttings from his hand. “What does that have to do with me?”

 

“What if you fall in?”

 

“I  _ can  _ swim.”

 

“I’d have to jump in after you.”

 

She gave a tinkling, mocking laugh that prickled his pride. “Guess you’ll drown.”

 

She did fall in and, despite her assurances that she could swim, he jumped in after her. The next few moments were a terrifying blur as the current caught him off-guard immediately. The water smashed against him, and he felt weighed down by his clothes. It occurred to him that he was probably going to die and her too.

 

Seconds later, he felt himself being pulled onto the riverbank. A pale, small face and dark eyes blinked down at him as he coughed and sputtered. Joyce sat by his side and crossed her arms over her thin chest. “I told you I could swim. You’re an idiot and you could have gotten us both killed.”

 

He sat up and glowered back at her. “I thought you were going to drown!”

 

“Then you need to get your ears checked. I. Can. Swim.”

 

“Hey now, why are you ruffians soaked to the bone?” A soft voice broke through their bickering. Joyce’s face lit up and she grinned at the intruder. Judging by his dark auburn hair and eyes, James figured that they were looking up at Joyce’s father.

 

Bruce Calloway took the pair back to Joyce’s house, lending James a pair of shorts and a sweater as he hung their clothes out in the backyard. The older man gave the pair hot chocolate and lemon-cakes, which James took eagerly, despite his aunt’s warnings about ruining his appetite and taking food from strangers. Bruce fixed himself a whiskey, put wood in the fireplace, and spoke to James like an adult, which was refreshing. Joyce just sat quietly and read from a book that was much thicker than the primers James was forced to read at school. She even seemed to be enjoying reading, which was bizarre.

 

“What is Anne Shirley up to now, Joycie Mae?” Bruce asked during a break in conversation.

 

“I expect she’ll be getting her stupid dress soon,” Joyce dead-panned which sent Bruce into amused laughter. James gaped at the pair. His dad would never let him get away with being so honest. She hadn’t even called him ‘sir’.

 

Later, at dinner, James’s father found out where he had been. His father wasn’t so sure about the Calloways, especially considering Bruce already had run-ins with the Hawkins Police. “A drunk for sure. Most micks are. Don’t be seen too much around that girl, James. If she gets you in trouble, it’ll be the strap.”

 

“It’s so strange that he doesn’t have a female relative staying with them. I hear he lets her run positively wild,” Aunt Lou whispered in disapproval.

 

James wanted to say that he’d be seen around Joyce for as long as she’d let him, but thought it best to remain quiet. He’d engage in rebellion, but only very quietly.

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

**Two: 1956**

Jim nearly dropped his book bag in the dirt when the sound of shouting and shattering glass erupted from the Calloway residence. He froze at the end of the long driveway, knowing he should do something, but not knowing what. He was 12 years old for Chrissake - what could he really do? What if someone was in there hurting the Calloways? Bruce was a grownup, so if he was getting bested, what could a kid do?

 

Jim finally exhaled the tight, painful breath he was holding when Joyce emerged from the front door. She slammed the door, turned towards it and shouted something filthy and incoherent, before breaking into a full run towards Jim. Her book bag was open, and the contents threatened to spill to the ground and the closer she got, the thicker the dread in Jim’s stomach.

 

Her nose was swollen and bleeding, there was a cut on her bottom lip. He was about to open his mouth to say something, but she grabbed his arm as she ran past, dragging him along with her with deceptive strength. 

 

“Joyce -...”

 

“JOYCE MAE CALLOWAY YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE, GIRL!”

 

“Keep going, he’s too drunk to give chase but we can’t stop,” Joyce muttered, her nails digging into Jim’s soft upper arm. 

 

“Joyce, who was that?” Jim asked once they were walking along the country road. She stopped in her tracks, released her grip and gave her a patented ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ look.

 

“That was Da. Who do you think it was?”

 

Bruce Calloway had invited Jim over just last week. He and Joyce had sat by the fire drinking cider while Bruce recited ‘Jabberwocky’. Bruce took them swimming in the summer and let them use his camping equipment to go into the woods alone with lunchboxes filled with sandwiches and an ice-cream bucket of blackberries. Bruce had let Jim try his first beer while Joyce rolled her eyes from her rocking chair. 

 

Bruce didn’t hit Joyce. Joyce was the still point in his universe. Jim shook his head. “Funny. Who is it really?”

 

Joyce’s dark eyes flashed with venom, her nose wrinkled and one corner of her lips curled in a sneer. “I don’t need you to believe me.” She wiped her nose with the back of her flannel sleeve. The red bloomed vivid against faded-blue. She started walking again. He followed.

 

“He shouldn’t do that to you.”

 

“You think?”

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

Joyce shrugged but kept walking. “It’s not an everyday or every month thing. He’s a drunk, and it’s gotten worse since he lost his job at the school.”

 

“They gave him a maintenance job at the hospital though.”

 

“Da says he’s a poet. That stuff kills his soul, he says.”

 

Jim rolled his eyes. His dad would have called Bruce ungrateful and selfish. The man had a kid to raise after all. That gave him an idea. “I’ll tell me dad! He’ll have a talk with him. Dad doesn’t think grownups should do stuff like that.”

 

Joyce laughed. “You get the strap all the time.”

 

“That’s different. He shouldn’t be hitting your face.”

 

The town of Hawkins came into view. They would be to the school in a few minutes. “You run and tell your daddy, then. See what happens.” Her voice was sad and resigned, her eyes cast down to the ground. 

 

Jim took her little hand and squeezed, wanting to be some kind of comfort but not knowing how. It occurred to him that she was beautiful when she was sad, but it was a terrible sort of beauty. One that twisted and soured his stomach. Not like when she smiled. When she smiled the world went calm. “Wanna race to the school?” he asked, trying to catch her eye, trying to smile for her sake. Brown eyes met blue and mercifully she grinned, pulled her hand from his grasp and broke into a run, her long, dark curls bouncing behind her. 

Later that night, Jim found his voice at the dinner table. “Bruce Calloway hits Joyce.”

 

Charles Hopper barely looked up from his plate of string beans and pork roast. Jim thought maybe he hadn’t heard, so he repeated the information.

 

“Oh, James really. This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation,” Aunt Lou fussed. 

 

“Your aunt is right. What a man does to his own is his business. If a child gets rowdy, they need to be corrected, and that girl is mouthy as all get out.”

 

Jim pushed the issue. “Yeah, but not her face. You don’t beat a kid like you would a bully on the playground.” A fond memory of breaking Lonnie’s nose floated through his brain. It was okay for cretins like Byers, but Joyce was...it didn’t make sense.

 

“What do you want me to do, son? Arrest him? Your little girlfriend would be sent away to the state if that happened. She doesn’t have any kin to speak of.”

 

Checkmate. Jim sat back in his seat and stared blankly at his plate. His appetite was gone, and he felt defeated.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Three and Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing Up

**1958**

 

“I don’t like what the weatherman is saying, Joycie,” Bruce Calloway remarked from behind his newspaper. The sun was shining through the kitchen windows, and the early morning sun was already heating up the little house to an uncomfortable degree. 

 

14 year-old Joyce gave the window a cursory glance and rolled her eyes over her steaming cup of coffee. “That weatherman is a liar, Da. It’s beautiful out. Isn’t it Jim?”

 

Two pairs of eyes turned towards Jim Hopper, who was dipping a cake donut into his cup of coffee. He regarded the pair with a clueless expression before biting into the confection. “Seems alright to me,” he responded through a heaping mouthful. He wiped his mouth with the napkin in his lap. “We won’t go out too far if you’re nervous, Mr. Calloway.” His eyes darted towards Joyce in time to catch another annoyed eye roll. 

 

Bruce placed his paper on the table and leaned over to muss-up Joyce’s hair. Jim’s eyes narrowed when he caught the almost imperceptible way Joyce flinched - the barest whisper of a tremor. There were times when Jim forgot about the day she came running to him, nose bleeding. Nothing had changed with Bruce afterwards. Jim was still invited to come over for their quirky little adventures and impromptu literary discussions. Bruce was still affable as ever and seemingly in awe of his wit of a daughter. Jim sometimes wondered if he had dreamed the whole event. It just seemed so out-of-the-blue. She certainly never mentioned it, and she had seemed right-as-rain by that weekend, biking up to Jim’s house on a brand-new blue bicycle. 

 

He forgot up until the times Joyce shrunk at her father’s touch. Then he remembered all too well. 

 

“I guess you’ll have to keep her safe,” Bruce instructed Jim. Joyce groaned and smothered an ‘Oh brother’ into her hands. “Take the rain gear just in case.”

 

“Yes, Da.” Joyce stood and walked over to her father, throwing her arms about his neck and pressing a kiss on his bearded cheek. Jim relaxed at the show of affection. “Let’s go to the shed to get the rest of the supplies, Hop.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

Knapsacks packed and secured, the pair headed off for the wooded path. The day still stood in contradiction to the weatherman. Blue skies, bright sun and sticky air. The shade of the forest brought relief to Jim and Joyce, who had been sweating buckets in the Calloway house and backyard as they packed. 

 

She was wearing shorts, Jim noticed. This was not unusual; it was the dead of summer, and Joyce wasn’t one for sundresses - her summer uniform usually consisted of denim cutoffs and gingham button-up blouses. However, Jim didn’t recall the shorts ever being so - well  _ short. _ Her tops were a little more snug around the front as well. She was still as gamine as ever, but she had changed. 

 

Jim knew for sure that when they walked through town together, the creeps that flew by in cars and pickup trucks weren’t whistling at him. She knew that too, and never failed to scream obscenities at the offenders, gleefully throwing both middle fingers into the air in defiance. She was tiny and fearless and Jim felt worse than those cretins who shouted at her as his thoughts turned more and more to the loveliness of her form. 

 

He wondered if she noticed the changes in him, the way the baby fat had melted from him, slowly but surely, as he shot up to an even six foot. ‘Still growing!’ his dad had bragged when Flo, the lady who ran the front desk at the department, commented on his height. While he was self-conscious about the way people now looked at him, he secretly hoped that she of all people had noticed. He didn’t know why.

“How far should we go?” she asked, keeping pace at his side. He blushed at the phrasing, clearing his throat as his heat-addled mind conjured an answer.

 

“Not far. Maybe the stream? The weather could change and I don’t think our tent could weather a bad storm.”

 

“That sounds fine.”

 

Jim frowned as they trudged along. Her tone had been agreeable. Sweet even. “You don’t have a better idea?” She  _ always _ had a ‘better’ idea. 

 

“Nope. That sounds real smart, Hop.” 

 

He looked down his shoulder at her. She was smiling up at him, sweet and soft with a flash of white teeth and little crinkles at the corners of her doe-like eyes. It was almost coquettish. He didn’t understand it, but he wasn’t going to question it. “Okay, then.”

 

By the time they had the tent set up and the fire blazing, the world went dark. It was only three in the afternoon, but thick black clouds rolled in to obscure the already dim light of the forest and the temperature plummeted. Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the air crackled with electricity. Joyce sat by the fire, staring up at the sky with fear stark on her pale features as she hugged her knees to her chest. He sat next to her and wrapped an arm around her tense shoulders. “Hey, Squirrel, it’s okay.” 

 

The thunder crashed around them, giving him a little start, tightening his grip on her shoulders. “If we start walking, I bet your daddy will meet us halfway. His car can fit through the path.”

 

Joyce moved closer to him and her face buried against his shoulder. From the wetness that soaked through the fabric of his t-shirt, he realized that she was crying and trying to not let him see. “He’s probably passed out drunk by now,” her voice was tight and muffled and as the wind picked up he tried to focus on the danger and not how sweet her hair smelled. 

 

“We’ll be okay. The storm hasn’t even hit yet. We could make it back -...”

 

Sirens wailed through the air, making both teens jump from their perch in terror. Several things happened at once; the wind picked up violently enough to tear their little tent from the ground and send it flying with most of their supplies, that terrible freight-train sounded battered against their ear drums, and Joyce kissed him hard enough to make him dizzy. 

Being a teenage boy who had just started to come into something resembling good looks, he was no expert on kisses, but he had an inkling that this was Joyce’s first attempt. She caught a little bit of skin when grabbing fistfuls of his shirt front, she got the angle wrong on the first attempt and bumped his nose, and her lips were firm and unyielding when they finally slanted against his. Despite all of this, it was the most exciting moment of his young life, and not just because he thought they were going to die.

 

The rain came down in sheets when she pulled away, her dark eyes wide and her mouth gaping open slightly. “I just wanted to make sure I got to do it once, in case we don’t-...” she pushed him out of the way as a bit of debris flew by, just missing the side of his head. As they looked around for a safe place, he kept going back to the fact that he’d very much like to kiss her again. 

 

In the end, the tempest was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The rain stopped all at once, and the sun broke through the clouds. Jim was about to press the issue of the kiss when he saw the devastated look on Joyce’s face as she surveyed the mess around them. “His camping gear…” she was terrified.. 

 

“Hey, we’ll get it together, don’t worry,” Jim reassured her, immediately setting to collect bits and pieces from the wreckage. The blood drained from his face when he took in the tent. It was beyond repair. “It’ll be okay, Squirrel.”

 

“No. It won’t.”

 

“Joyce?” They both jumped at the sound of Bruce Calloway’s voice as it echoed through the forest. 

 

Joyce’s chin began to quiver, but she called back towards the voice. Jim moved in front of her, deciding to be her shield in case something went wrong. 

 

Bruce stepped into the clearing and took in the upended campsite with an unreadable expression. He spotted Jim and walked over slowly. “Are you hurt?” he asked in his soft, musical tone. Jim shook his head. “Joycie. Are you okay, darlin’?” 

 

Joyce sidestepped into her father’s view. Jim placed a hand on her lower back as they looked up at her father, waiting for another storm.

 

He pulled them both into an embrace with a joyous cry. “You little eejits, I told you the weather was going to be bad.” He picked up Joyce when she began to sob. “Oh no, Love, it’s okay.” Jim was astounded when he observed his tough-as-nails friend cling to her father’s neck like a child, taking solace from the person whose wrath had staggered her with fear earlier. Families were strange, he mused.

 

He ended up going home that night. Neither his aunt nor his father made a comment about the weather or where Jim had been. The dinner was as terse and as silent as it ever was.

 

* * *

**1963**

 

“He died doing what he loved,” Jim intoned, putting his arm around Joyce as she shivered near the fresh grave. The small crowd had dispersed and she and Jim were all that remained.

 

“Drinking himself stupid and racing teenagers at traffic lights,” Joyce added. She shrugged dispassionately, took a handkerchief out of her long coat and blew her nose. She pressed her cheek against Jim’s chest. The fabric of his uniform was stiff and unyielding. She hated that uniform. “I’m sorry that you had to come home to this right before you leave. Everyone should be happy and celebrating the fact that you’re marching off to some pointless war.” She felt him tense up. It was wrong of her to start a fight, particularly  _ that  _ one, but there it was.

 

“You’re upset - about a lot of things.”

 

Joyce pulled away and looked up at him, her face twisted into a frown. “Your number didn’t even come up. You just jumped to the front of the line!”

 

“My dad-...”

 

“Don’t talk to me about your dad! He pushed because he knew we had plans.” She slapped away at his hands as they rose to rest on her shoulders. Tears were burning in her eyes, to her mortification. She had gotten through the entire funeral without making a fool of herself and now she was about to go to pieces over a stupid boy. And she was scared. That house was hers and she was shackled to it and she had no idea what to do about it. “And I’m stuck here…”

 

“Joycie, you’re not.”

 

“No one is going to want to buy that dump!”

 

She didn’t fight as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight and stroking her hair as he murmured soft nonsense against the top of her head. Something she heard made her spring backwards. “What?”

He dropped to one knee and her heart began to hammer violently against her chest. The oxygen flew from her chest and her vision blurred and focused on the tall, strapping soldier kneeling in the mud. He caught her left hand in his and looked up imploringly. “Hop…”

 

“We’ll fix it up together. Then we can live in it or sell it. Marry me, Joyce.”

 

An idea came to her. “Will they still let you out?”

 

Jim shifted his weight and dropped her hand. “What?”

 

“People have been getting married all the time to get out of serving. Would that work for us?” She dropped to her knees, a hopeful smile on her face. “Do you know something I don’t?”

 

He stood, something akin to disgust darkening his features. “I didn’t ask you so I could get out of my duty, I asked you because I love you. You’d get a stipend while I’m gone that could help with the house. You could go to school. Why would you even think that I’d marry you to get out of something this huge?”

 

Joyce heart sank. She didn’t stand and she refused his hand when he tried to help her up. “I love you,” she murmured, staring her skirt as the rain and earth darkened it from charcoal to pitch. 

 

“Then what’s the problem? Please get up. You are going to make yourself sick, Squirrel.” His hands went under her arms and he pulled her to her feet. She felt numb.

 

“You’ll die. That’s how it goes.”

 

No argument could convince her otherwise. He left for war without saying goodbye, without seeing her again after the graveyard. They ate dinner alone in their respective homes because Aunt Lou was dead and Charles was worked late, despite the fact that everyone thought he needed to retire.

  
The only letter she ever sent him was one to tell him that she married Lonnie Byers.


End file.
